Cosette
by EponineGavy
Summary: Little Cosette's life has a different ending


As I rolled over in my bed, my eyes opened. I couldn't believe it, the day  
had finally arrived. I regret it every year, I dreaded it and stressed over  
every minute it came closer into contact. Today was the day my mother had  
died. It wasn't an anniversary really, it wasn't anything to be celebrated. I  
knew I would have to face the loneliness that came every year, but this time  
it seemed worse. I got up off the cold wooden bed with only a small cotton  
blanket that kept me warm during this cold winter. I heard his footsteps  
clambering up the stairs and I shivered even more. His dark face appeared  
as he opened the door and grabbed me by my rags. I fell to the floor in fear  
and he kicked me in my stomach harshly.  
"Get your lazy self up Cosette, we took you in outa' pity...d'ya wanna go  
back out onto the streets? Do you wanna get sick? Do you wanna die...like  
your Mother! Get UP!" he yelled at me once more as I tried to pull myself up  
with my tiny wrists. He grabbed me violently by my hair and dragged me  
madly down the stairs as I was left to cry helplessly.   
Then he hit me again. The dark threatening hand slammed against my  
face as I fell to the cold cement. Pricks of ice enveloped my left cheek as I  
lay face down in dirtied snow.  
"You little idiot child...this time I'll get even." I heard his cold harsh voice.  
His breath was warm and putrid smelling as I felt it against my bloodied  
face. He ran a finger gently and slowly along the side of my neck. I shut my  
eyes and prayed he would just disappear, disappear like your breath on a  
cold winter's night...just like this one.  
"You didn't know that did you? Your Mother never loved you, never wanted  
you! I didn't want you! No one wants you Cosette! No one at all!" his words  
stung like knives against my soul. I closed my eyes to hide the tears and  
laid as still as I possibly could. I heard him get up and walk away, the  
staccato footsteps sharply behind me. I didn't have a name for him. He said  
he was my father...he said he had to take me in and he wished he hadn't, I  
wished I wasn't born.  
I grasped the dark as I struggled to sit up. My ebony hair fell against my  
cheek, the blood entangled with the black. Yet this wasn't the last time he'd  
hurt me...he would come back, he always knew where to look.   
I picked myself up and found I could stand all right. But the dizziness of  
depression bit away at my soul and I had to bite my lip to keep the tears  
from pouring out. I knew where to go, I always went to the same place in  
the sadness of my heart.   
I had finally reached the old eroded iron gates. I opened them slowly as I  
heard the familiar creaking sound that I had come to love. I counted each  
grave marker in my head until I reached Hers. 1, 2, 3, 4... , I counted in my  
head. It had become a ritual by now. When I had finally reached number 38  
I knelt down in the snow, my gray dress lay in rags now as they fell silently  
over my knees. I shivered and brought my finger up to her name.   
'Fantine' I entraced my fingers along the carved in name. I had sat here  
for hours many times, just praying and murmuring her name. Fantine was  
my Mother, she had to want me, had to need me. I knew she had loved  
me...  
There was little I had remembered of her. She had left me when I was only  
but three years old. He had told me that she sold herself, didn't know  
where to turn, didn't have a choice. He told me she had a luxurious long  
blonde hair...but then severed it all for money....money to save my life,  
money to save a dying child. But through the clouded memories of the  
childhood I was still enduring I could just barely make out warm pale arms  
extending a length of love to my tiny and waif little body. The arms I wish I  
had now...to hold me.  
I got up instantaneously and scanned the old graveyard, I knew what he  
had said...he had told me to fetch some water before he'd beaten me. I  
hated the woods, hated them. The darkness was unspeakably nightmarish.  
Monsters and ghosts lured from every corner, so I looked neither right nor  
left, afraid of what might lunge out from a bush or a tree. I knew had to go,  
or else he would hit me again.   
I made my way sullenly back to his house. Where his wife was happily  
playing with her two little children. They were both girls, my age and  
envied with beauty. They sat in her arms, their little pink camisoles drifting  
down their plump legs while the mother sang them lullabies of sea Faeries  
and mermaids. I stood and watched for a moment, almost imagining myself  
in her arms, yet I knew that could never be. I walked over to the side of the  
Inn and picked up the old wooden pail by it's metal handle in my small,  
weak little hand. I was only eight years old and the bucket was far to big for  
me, half my size.   
"Better hurry Lark! We got customers, they need water!" I heard him yell  
from inside, his voice screeching loudly. He called me the Lark, up and  
singing at dawn he would say.   
I passed through the wavering yet broken and deserted streets. People  
stopped to stare at my willowy little body, begrimed and sooty in every  
way. I clasped my hands and closed my eyes. A woman turned around to  
face me.  
"Where in heaven can tha' lil' thing be goin'? Tha' little fairy child...wot'  
she up to?" she peered at me in a corner of the street and squinted.  
"Oh," she said dryly, "It's juss' the lark." I dropped my bucket onto the  
cobblestone street. I had reached the last house, and I felt weak and  
frail...unable to go on any longer. This was not the country, I was to enter  
the woods now. I brought my bony little hands up to my matted hair and  
began to scratch, looking quite peculiar for a child. With terror seeping into  
my bones I hesitated. I looked into the woods with hopelessness entering  
my mind. I tried to look away yet kept gazing as I almost could make out  
the animals crying and the ghosts weeping and howling.   
"Oh nevermind...," fear had made me bold, "I'll juss' tell 'im there wasn't  
any water!" I had nearly gone a dozen steps when I started to get  
desperate. My hands reached the top of my head as I felt a tear reach my  
neck in agony. That was when his face flashed before me, those beady little  
eyes of his, his flashing mouth and roaring anger. He would never believe  
me! I looked back and cringed, but looked ahead and coiled in fear. In front  
of me he was waiting...but behind me were the woods, I had to choose and  
I had to do it. I looked behind me and shut my eyes tightly as I ran. I didn't  
look and I didn't think. I heard animal calls and wild screams. I exaggerated  
every crevice of unknown. The monstrosity of the night confronted me. It  
was only a seven or eight minutes walk to the well, I had known very well  
as I came here every day almost several times. The tears left my face in  
agony as I finally reached the old torn up well. It was a natural basin, with  
hard paved stones surrounding it and a small clearing in which a brook  
whispered gently below it. I grabbed the rope and lowered down the bucket  
but stopped midway. I stood erect, my rags shook along with my freezing  
body as I tried to clasp the old wool shawl around my bony shoulders. I  
held the bucket tightly, water sloshing out violently and numbing my bony  
little hands. I drew my breath in sharply and painfully, even then I could  
hear him around me. I saw him everywhere, like he was waiting to haunt  
and taunt me as he did when I always reached the old inn. I had taken too  
long in drawing the water, and I knew he would beat me. Long hair fell  
tangled into my dark azure eyes, yet I could make out the image of a  
lady...almost angelic looking. She stepped towards me, as if she was  
floating. I saw her extend a hand in my direction. I stood nervous, not able  
to move. She was dressed in white and had flowing blonde hair that  
stopped as it reached the middle of her back. She was beautiful, yet you  
could tell by her sullen face underneath the peacefulness that she had  
once experience pain. Pain that I have known my entire life.  
"Take my hand Cosette, take my love." If she hadn't spoken then I never  
would have known, for it was her voice that I had recognized. A baby may  
not know the face of it's mother, but a baby shall always know that  
symphonic voice that floated melodically through the throat and made you  
want to smile. I stepped closer and hesitated before I reached out my hand.  
"I've missed you Cosette, I've missed you my darling." she smiled at me  
and then wrapped her arms around me. As I lay in her arms I felt myself  
becoming weaker, lighter, almost dizzy. I knew we were leaving, I knew I'd  
be with her always in eternity. My mother had come from ecstasy to rescue  
me from the depths of hell. I knew that I wouldn't miss him, nor his wife. I  
knew they would never speak of me again, or my mother.   
I was born unto this world on the wind of pain which happened to be a   
warm wind for December. Laden with the hot greasy scents of warm apple  
cider and sticky-sweet caramel apples, cooked until the hot caramel slid  
down delicately on the stick right there on the streetside. With the snow  
sleeting down gutters and crevices like a whirlwind of confetti.   
The wind now speaks of our departure, the hardships and the labor. The  
wind speaks of the love, and the tears. It speaks of questions unanswered  
and secrets untold. This time we will not hear the wind, we have left  
without it. I'm gone, and the wind knows our story.   
  



End file.
